


Utrub Amal

by Irrealia



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cultural Misunderstandings, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Genderfuck, Light Angst, M/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sex Work, dwarf sexuality, emotionally repressed hobbits, mistaken/concealed identity, no one has sex with anyone they don't want to have sex with, no really though there's a lot of porn like this one is all porn all the time, proxy sex, shakespearean gender-swap hijinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-30 03:09:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6406297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrealia/pseuds/Irrealia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The range of dwarven crafts is wider than Bilbo could have ever anticipated, but they help him cope with his seemingly impossible desire for a certain unattainable dwarf king. </p><p>If you have any concerns about this story triggering you, please check the end notes for spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TAFKAB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/gifts), [pangur_pangur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pangur_pangur/gifts).



> This story is largely the fault of TAFKAB, who inspired me to imagine dwarf sex workers, and [@pangur-pangur](http://pangur-pangur.tumblr.com), who helped me run with the idea and walked me through numerous other plot points. Gorgeous brilliant Pangur also helped to wrangle the prose because, well, I don't know where sentences are supposed to end sometimes.

It was well known, amongst the various races of Arda, that dwarves were devoted to their crafts. In fact, if there was one thing about dwarves that _was_ known, it was their single-minded craftsmanship.

What was less well known was the diversity of dwarven crafts. Bilbo began to develop an appreciation for this, though, as he travelled with Thorin and his company. Among the thirteen, their “crafts” seemed to range from mining, smithing, and toymaking, to cooking, to theft and spying, to war, to statecraft. Just because one’s work was a little more abstract, or the results were transient, soon to be consumed or to fade, didn’t mean it wasn’t still a craft, as far as dwarves were concerned.

There were even, Kili told him once, as a tipsy blush stole over his face, dwarves who were devoted to pleasure as their craft. Their work was making others feel good, with touches, embraces, and—for dwarves who preferred such things—genital stimulation.

Bilbo could only suspect that Kíli had not spent much time talking about _certain topics_ in Westron, to have phrased things so awkwardly, but he tucked away the Khuzdul phrase for reference— _utrabu amal_. If he was going to be around these dwarves for awhile, it seemed a handy thing to know, especially if he didn’t want to accidentally find himself in a compromising situation.

It was a good thing he had done. At first it only helped him to understand some of Bofur’s bawdier stories, but as dwarves began to flock towards reclaimed Erebor, there were indeed indeed some _utrub amal_ among them, as much a vital part of the rebuilding as any other kind of craftsperson. At first Bilbo blushed a bit when he wandered past their newly established salons and realised what they were for, but it soon became apparent that the _utrub amal_ were respectful, professional sorts, who would never compromise him without his consent. They did not leer from their doorways, as he had seen such labourers do in the towns of men; they did not shout after him as he passed by.

They did, however, politely offer him tea and massage, and one day, Bilbo said yes. Surely there was nothing indecent about either tea _or_ massage, and although one of the king’s particular friends could expect a certain level of comfort beyond that of the average Ereborean dwarrow, the mountain was still in shambles and “above average” wasn’t really saying much. As inured as Bilbo had become to various hardships, he was still a hobbit, and a lover of comfort at heart, and he was hard-put to ignore the promise of comforts when the _utrub amal_ were ever so decorously dangling them in front of him.

However, if one were to ask Bilbo why this salon, or why this day, he would merely have said that the dwarrowdam who finally convinced him just seemed like a really lovely woman. He would not have mentioned her waist-length waves of dark hair, or her piercing sapphire eyes; the aristocratic line of her nose, or her neatly trimmed beard. But afterwards, he would have been sure to recount just how refreshing the massage was, and how much better his poor back felt, how clear his head was now, and how very _delicious_ the tea tasted. He would have gleefully detailed just how unlike anything served in the Shire it was, with fresh green tea leaves, and spicy seed pods and nuts boiled in the water along with the leaves, and heaping spoonfuls of honey added to it all.

A hobbit’s passion for food, after all, was nearly as well known as a dwarf’s passion for craft.

So he went back.

And then he went back again.

And again.

Her name was Durís, and Bilbo couldn’t help but think it sounded a bit like Durin. “'Twas meant to,” said Durís, when Bilbo asked. “We’re not as noble as your friend the king, my family, but we’re pureblooded Longbeards as far back as anyone can remember, and the Longbeards are all Durin’s folk. Me mam was right proud of it too.”

Bilbo couldn’t help but blush at bit at the mention of Thorin; Durís eyed him carefully as she poured more tea into a glass filled with little slivers of pistachio.

“Not just your friend, is he? The king...” she said softly, midnight eyes watching Bilbo intently as he sipped his tea in the most deliberate fashion. After a long pause, during which Bilbo carefully swished the tea in his mouth and swallowed, he replied, “He has certainly never given me any reason to think that I am anything more or less than a dear friend and a member of his company.” And if his words were a little too careful, Durís tactfully didn’t mention it.

During his first massage (or three), Bilbo had been very shy about stripping down for her, but after he felt the way that the long strokes of Durís’ strong hands rolled out the tension in his muscles straight down from his shoulders to his thighs, he couldn’t help but conclude that the nudity was an essential part of the pleasure and comfort on offer, and so he resolved not to worry about it any further. If after several further visits to Durís’ salon her hands turned to soothing Bilbo’s other tensions too, well, her craftsmanship was impeccable. And if, in a moment of heightened pleasure under Durís’ masterful ministrations, Bilbo cried out another’s name, well, Durís was a professional. And so what she replied with was, “I’m here, Bilbo.”

And while it might have been considered a liberty by another of her clients, Durís was talented, and she had a reasonable suspicion that Bilbo would very much like to be kissed by his friend and his king.

So she did.

When Durís kissed him, Bilbo transformed from a passionate recipient of her arts into a citizen of a little world they had started to create together in her salon, where Bilbo was a hero who needed and deserved to have kisses and caresses lavished upon him, and Durís was a king, haughty but nonetheless unafraid to strip himself down in private, to bare himself before his hero, and to beg the indulgence of love.

Bilbo kissed her like a drowning man, when she was his king, and she kissed him like a warrior who could save him from an army of darkness. When they finally broke the kiss, she turned and knelt on all fours before him, letting her posture hide her more womanly features, her softly furred breasts, and peered back at him through the long veil of her hair. In the dim light, it was enough; she seemed sufficiently altered for Bilbo to throw himself wholly into the fantasy. “I’ve wanted you,” said Bilbo softly, almost barely whispering the words he hadn’t said aloud before, not even to himself.

“Ever since I heard you sing,” he repeated, “I wanted you.” Durís laughed soft and low, and her rich contralto sounded out the first bars of the song, for every dwarf in Erebor could sing it now:

_Far over the Misty Mountains cold…_

“You tease!” cried Bilbo, who reached out to hesitantly stroke the curve of her arse, as reverently and as soberly as if she were indeed the king. “But you are devoted to your people—you are devoted to your craft— _you are a king!_ And I am just a queer old bachelor!”

“No,” she said, still looking back at Bilbo, her eyes blue like candles burning low in the dark. “For why do you think I sang that night? Do you think you did not charm me as well? Do you think I cannot be moved, as you were?” One might well imagine that it was easy for Durís to pretend; stories of the quest, and particularly the meeting of king and halfling, had already been made into songs both devout and earthy. Bilbo shook his head in disbelief, but Durís reached a hand back towards him, to tug him towards her offered body. “I wanted you. _I want you_ ,” she insisted, gracefully arching down and thrusting the robust curves of her bottom towards Bilbo.

It might be more fair to say that Bilbo fell into her than anything else. He was hard and aching, half-delirious with want and limp from massage; and Durís had placed herself so cunningly that the slightest thrust forward would urge Bilbo’s sword into her sheath. And it did not matter, in that moment, that her body did not feel to Bilbo exactly as the body of the king he was imagining. It was simply important that she was there for his pleasure, a willing collaborator in his fantasy, a mirror for his love. He drove into her over and over and over again, and the sound of a name that was not hers fell down around them like a rainstorm.

And as in the aftermath of a rainstorm, the air felt clean and calm when they were done taking their pleasure. Bilbo lay back on the bed, splayed out and sated, and Durís perched between his legs, softly stroking the inside of his thigh as he came back to himself. Her hair was a dark halo of frizz now, and the bejewelled chains that draped around her did not do much to hide her breasts, or the lush swell of her hips, as she sat facing him. But it also didn’t matter now, because she was Durís again.

“You mustn’t breathe a word of this,” said Bilbo, when he had caught his breath enough to speak. “I shouldn’t dream of it,” swore Durís. And she didn’t.

\--

Bilbo wasn’t sure, afterwards, if his time with Durís made the time he spent with Thorin easier to bear, or more difficult. She had been right, that he was more than a little taken with the dwarf king, but he had been honest when he had told her that, as far as he could tell, Thorin was as devoted to his people as any other dwarf to his craft, and that he had given Bilbo little in the way of hope that he felt anything more than friendship for him.

In this, Bilbo betrayed both how much he had learnt of dwarves, and how little.

“I hear you’ve taken a liking to one of the courtesans,” said Thorin one day. His manner of speaking, on this subject, was only slightly less stilted than Kili’s. And if a faint blush lined his cheeks when he said it, well, Bilbo was too busy trying to duck his head down in the hopes that his lanky, growing curls would hide the crimson tint on his own cheeks.

“Durís makes the most amazing tea,” he said defensively, and then he picked up a scroll full of particularly tedious treaty demands from Mirkwood that he was fairly certain Thranduil had written in Quenya _on purpose_ , such that both Bilbo and Balin had trouble reading it.

Thorin mercifully left him to it, after remarking, “It is good that you can appreciate our _utrub amal_ as a dwarf would. Another sign that you belong here.” He punctuated the remark with a soft smile, but Bilbo’s brows were furrowed, trying to work out the historical relationships between Quenya and Sindarin verb suffixes, his lips moving as he read and re-read the same line.

Bilbo stared at the scroll until he had a headache. Then he went to Durís so she could unknot his neck and shoulders.

\--

His visits to Durís became a sweet routine, as well as a helpful tool for learning the days of the dwarven week. Slowly, he allowed the fantasies to become more elaborate, as weeks passed and no one learnt the terrible secret of his desire. Sometimes Durís would dress the part, with masculine attire and a cunning rig beneath her jerkin that Bilbo might fall to his knees and kiss, or be sweetly persuaded with oil and caresses to accept. Other times she would simply bedeck herself in whole dresses of delicate chainmail studded with sapphires that matched her eyes, that matched his eyes, that swayed and swished around her and revealed her figure selectively, so that sometimes she was herself and sometimes she was not, and Bilbo might choose more freely how to imagine her.

(He always chose the same.)

One day, Bilbo arrived for his appointment, and Durís was not in the front of the salon, where she usually waited for him. There was, however, a steaming pot of tea set out along with a delicate gilded cup, and so Bilbo sat down and helped himself.

It was, after all, very good tea.

After a few moments, though, he heard some rustling from the inner chamber, where Durís did her work, and a soft, low giggle.

“Hello?” called Bilbo, standing up. But then as no other sounds were forthcoming, he sat down again. And then promptly stood up again, taking the tea cup with him to go investigate.

But when he reached the back room, there was Durís as usual. She was dressed spectacularly, in a silver collar from which hung countless strands of silver chain, strung with deep blue beads. She was wholly naked beneath it, and it gave her whole body a shimmering air, almost as if she was too beautiful to exist in this world, and was moving in and out of it.

Bilbo grinned up at her. She stepped forward, and tugged his tunic up over his head, then helped him out of his trousers and underthings. Bilbo was not too shy, now, though a faint pink stain did creep over the tips of his ears and cheeks. She ran an affectionate hand down Bilbo’s downy torso, then reached up to cup his cheek. “I’m sorry I weren’t there to greet you, but I have a little something special planned for you.” She turned, and all the chains that draped over her jingled ever so slightly.

From the bedside table, she produced a long strip of soft blue velvet. “Would you let me bind your eyes with this?” she asked, holding it out for Bilbo’s inspection. His fingers reached out to stroke the soft fabric, considering. “It helps to heighten physical sensations,” she added, and Bilbo nodded his assent. “If you don’t like it, just say, and it’ll come right off,” she said, moving around Bilbo to tie it snugly over his eyes, and when Bilbo had reached up to adjust it to his comfort, she took his hands and led him over to the bed.

“Lie down for me,” she commanded, her voice taking on a now-practiced kingly tone, “and wait just a moment. I’ll return with the rest of your surprise.” And so Bilbo lay down on his back, and waited obediently.

The rustle of her decorations was a boon, in Bilbo’s blindfolded state. He could hear the tinkling rustling sound as she went into her private boudoir, could hear her doing…. Something, but it didn’t matter—it simply assured him that she hadn’t gone far, and it demonstrated quite practically how his senses were indeed heightened. And then he heard her re-enter the room, and he felt her weight dip the mattress down beside him. There came the sound of a bottle being unstoppered, and fragrant oil being spread over broad hands, and then suddenly those warm hands were touching him. In fact, they  seemed almost impossibly warm and broad, much larger than they had ever felt before, and Bilbo was, indeed, thoroughly impressed with the effects of the blindfold.

Durís hummed, soft and low, as she worked from his shins  all the way up to the tops of his thighs, teasing him a bit, but not touching. She seemed to be letting him relax, on the one hand, and building him up for it, on the other. Her touch was bold, so much so that Bilbo could not help but moan, “Oh please, Thorin… my king… have I not waited long enough for you?”

Durís laughed, deep and dulcet, and her dress chimed as she leaned down to lick a long stripe up his stiff and standing cock, her beard brushing after her tongue. “Thorin!” gasped Bilbo, wholly given over, now, to their usual roleplay. “Oh Thorin, I need you so terribly,” he whimpered, and Durís did not deny him, but rather swallowed him whole, with unprecedented greed and passion. Bilbo’s whole being seemed to be focused on the sensation of wet heat and suction, taken by the sudden rapturous lust that he now found himself at the mercy of, and he couldn’t help but reach down and grip Durís’ hair, his awkwardly clutching fingers doing something between stroking and tangling.

Durís fair _growled_ around his cock in response. Bilbo nearly vibrated off the bed, his fingers now not clutching just at Durís’ hair, but at the collar and chains about her neck, at the silken bedclothes, at anything and everything his hands could grip. Durís laughed softly at the extremity of his reaction, and then slipped an oiled finger over Bilbo’s sac and downwards, to slowly press into him. Bilbo keened at the sensation, arching his hips upwards. Had he been more aware of himself in the moment, he likely would have thought himself terribly rude—indeed, Durís choked a bit and pulled back, before going in to swallow Bilbo up again, a bit clumsier than her usual flawless performance. But then she began to work her finger in faster, and to press a second oil-slick finger in beside it, curving them upwards to coax Bilbo along while she moaned lasciviously around him, working the base of his shaft with her hand now as well as her mouth suckling the tip.

Dwarves were known for their endurance; hobbits were not. The second finger (and when had Durís’ fingers ever made him feel so agonisingly full?) had Bilbo incapable of noises other than the name of his beloved; as she curved them upward, Bilbo saw stars behind the blindfold.

He knew that he shouted something, in a moment of barely conscious ecstasy, but he couldn’t have said what it was. He felt Durís press a gentle kiss to the tip of his softening cock, and then she pulled back, and carefully reached up to undo the blindfold.

But it wasn’t Durís who sat before him on the bed, decked in silver and jewels.

It was Thorin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please go look at [this gorgeous drawing of Durís](http://ahiddenkitty.tumblr.com/post/143939228963/this-is-dur%C3%ADs-daughter-of-tord%C3%ADs-a-good-and) by the wonderful, beautiful [Hidden Kitty](http://ahiddenkitty.tumblr.com/). 
> 
> And then check out [this amazing art of Bilbo and Durís (SFW)](http://mithrilbikini.tumblr.com/post/153324253292/a-very-belated-birthday-gift-for-irrealis-its) by the glorious [Mith](http://mithrilbikini.tumblr.com). 
> 
> You two are so magical and have brought me so much joy <3
> 
>  **Neo-Khuzdul Glossary**  
>  _Utrabu amal_ = “Crafter of pleasure” (pl. form _utrub amal_ )
> 
> Durís’ name comes from The Dwarrow Scholar’s [list of female dwarf outer names](https://dwarrowscholar.wordpress.com/general-documents/female-dwarf-outer-names/), taken from Old Norse and Icelandic.
> 
> The tea Durís serves is based on [Kashmiri kahwah](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kahwah), which is really really good.


	2. Massage

Thorin didn’t have as much time as he might have wanted to ensure that Bilbo was settling in as fully as he might do, now that he was well and overseeing Erebor himself. But he had faith in the hobbit, faith that after the better part of a year with dwarves, he could carve out a little place for himself within the mountain—in fact, perhaps he already had. Bilbo had been an indispensable help to Balin, Dwalin, and Dáin, to whom most of the earliest negotiations had fallen when Thorin and his heirs alike still lay gravely wounded after what folk were now calling the Battle of the Five Armies. But even as responsibility devolved, bit by bit, to Erebor’s proper heirs, Bilbo continued to help.

There was a time when Thorin would have discounted the social niceties of hobbits. But in matters of diplomacy and negotiation, or in shepherding Thorin through formal dinners or irritating council meetings, Bilbo’s artful and deft conversation was as critical to the success of Erebor’s restoration as his ability to lie and chatter and distract had been on the quest.

(Now that Thorin thought about it, these were not unrelated skills.)

He had been concerned, after the battle, that Bilbo might hold the actions of his madness against him, but Bilbo had been steadily at his side ever since, and the one time Thorin tried to talk about it, Bilbo had merely told him, “Well, we settled that right as the eagles were coming to get you, didn’t we Thorin, and I don’t really know why you’d bring it up again now.” And honestly, Bilbo’s continued presence by his side, helping him with the daily work of ruling, told him everything that he needed to know about the hobbit’s feelings.

They warmed him down to the tips of his toes, snug in his fur-lined, iron-capped boots.

\--

It was something of a shock when Thorin returned to his quarters one evening, smiling after a long evening spent sorting through paperwork with Bilbo, to find Nori flopped imperiously in his bed, trimming his fingernails with a small but wicked-looking pocket knife.

Thorin stopped, crossed his arms over his chest, and raised an eyebrow at him. “This is a slightly unorthodox time for a report, Master Nori,” he said, a little coldly.

“S’not the usual kind of report, _your majesty_ ,” he retorted. “Not anything your councillors need to be hearing about, innit. It’s special. Just for you.” He grinned up at Thorin, all knife-sharp teeth and foreboding.

Thorin reluctantly eased himself into an armchair by the fire. Nori bounced off the bed, rather theatrically. He paced across the room to stand behind Thorin, then leaned in, entirely too close, to whisper into the king’s ear.

“Do you know where Bilbo goes?”

Thorin’s brow furrowed. “Does it matter?”

“Oh I think you’ll find it matters.” Nori paused a moment, for effect, letting his hands settle presumptuously on Thorin’s broad shoulders, giving them a stiff squeeze. “He’s taken a liking to an _utrabu amal_ , name of Durís, daughter of Tordís,” said Nori silkily and slowly, letting the words sink in, massaging them in with his fingers. “I’ve seen him going in there once or twice a week, lately.”

“Well, we know he’s fond of tea,” said Thorin, although an astute observer like Nori would have noted just how uneasy Thorin sounded.

“Fond of more than tea, by the sounds of it,” Nori replied, and Thorin could _feel_ Nori’s smirk right up against his ear. He shook his head, as if trying to evade a buzzing fly. “Do you know what your darling Bilbo cries out when he’s with Durís, Thorin? When he’s so lost in pleasure that he can’t help himself?”

Thorin froze. Nori moved a hand up from Thorin’s shoulder to stroke his hair, tucking it neatly behind his ear, and then he licked a careful curve on the skin just behind it.

“Your name,” said Nori. And then he pulled back rather dramatically, before Thorin could take a swing at him, for the king indeed bolted out of the chair, rigid with anger, and face mottled red. And then just as suddenly, Thorin softened, and sagged, and sat back down.

“My name?” he asked, disbelieving.

But Nori was already gone.

\--

It was too confusing a thought; his mind refused to contain it properly. If Bilbo wanted Thorin, how could he not see that Thorin was, after all, right here? He had thought that his regard for Bilbo would have been obvious, especially to someone who had adapted so quickly to dwarven ways. Was Bilbo’s place in his life not assured? Who else had been allowed at his bedside every day, when he had been recovering from the terrible wounds Azog had dealt him? Who else did Thorin embrace so tenderly? Who else, save the dwarves of his company of royal lineage, had he invited to lodge in the royal quarters of the mountain? (Come to think of it, given that most of the company were of Durin’s line, perhaps the special favour shown to Bilbo was less obvious than it might have been.)

But upon who else had he lavished the mountain’s greatest treasure, save the Arkenstone itself?

Did Bilbo really not know that Thorin was his for the asking? That Thorin had _always_ been his, from the moment he offered to help Thorin find a home?

If it were merely a problem of knowledge, well, perhaps it was not insurmountable. He would just have to somehow _tell_ Bilbo. But then, more troubling thoughts occurred to him.

Could it be that Bilbo was put off by the fact that they were both males? He knew some men had strange ideas about that sort of thing; perhaps hobbits, man-like as they were, frowned on such connections, and Bilbo imagined it would be impossible to have what he wanted. Or perhaps… perhaps he could not bring himself to break a taboo he himself held dear, and so sought pleasure with a dam, that he might not feel the shame of an improper relation?

There could be little remedy for _that._

He needed to know more, first. So the next day, he asked about it.

“I hear you’ve taken a liking to one of the courtesans,” said Thorin, whilst he and Bilbo were going over some particularly maddening documents from Mirkwood. He felt his face catching fire as he spoke, but he was a king and he had faced a dragon—he could surely face this.

“Durís makes the most amazing tea,” said Bilbo, whose tone sounded a bit lofty to Thorin, but since his eyes never left the scroll, Thorin reasoned that Bilbo was probably just distracted. So, he offered Bilbo a small smile. “It is good that you can appreciate our _utrub amal_ as a dwarf would. Another sign that you belong here.” And then he didn’t press the issue further, choosing instead to enjoy the companionable quiet in which they worked together to rebuild Erebor, and to secure her future amongst her neighbours.

\--

As soon as he could, he went to go speak to Durís herself. After wrangling Bilbo’s schedule out of Nori and finding a time that Bilbo would not be there, he carved out some free time of his own, dressed in some of his more plain clothing, and found the salon of Durís, daughter of Tordís. His first impression was that it was well appointed. The graceful arch of the doorway led into a charming little front room full of beautifully carved wooden furniture padded with silken cushions, a bright blazing fireplace, and, truly, Durís served the best spiced tea he’d ever had.

“Me da was a woodworker,” Durís explained, “Liked the exotic woods best for carving, and me mam was a spice trader, so they were always in the same markets, buying and selling, and that’s how they met!”

Thorin had been prepared to dislike Durís, but he found that he couldn’t. He could immediately understand why Bilbo found her salon so comfortable, and well, as for the rest….

“They must have both been Longbeards, your parents,” he said sympathetically. “You’ve got the look of our clan.”

“So I hear,” said Durís sagely. “I expect that’s why your young man comes to see me so often.”

Thorin dropped his teacup.

Several rounds of apologies later, Durís and Thorin were resettled on her exceedingly comfortable furniture, curiously staring the other down. “You really do look like my sister did when she was younger,” said Thorin, still marvelling at the resemblance.

“I shouldn’t’ve said anything,” said Durís, “but you coming in here and all, well, I suppose kings have ways of knowing things, especially about those as are dear to them.”

Thorin pinked at that.

“Mistress Durís, you must understand, Master Baggins and I….” and here he broke off, for how was he to describe what Bilbo was to him, or he to Bilbo, when plainly they had neither of them understood the other all this time?

Durís patted him gently on the knee. “I know, your majesty,” she said, her voice musical and reassuring—not at all like Thorin’s really, but compelling in its own way. “I think it’s plain as day to any dwarrow here how well you esteem our Master Baggins, but he seems to have learnt just enough about our ways to have gone a bit wrong in how he thinks of you. He knows how many of us are married to our crafts and, well, he thinks you’re married to Erebor, I suppose, just like I’m married to my little salon.” She patted the arm of the couch affectionately.

Thorin shook his head and contemplated the tea, taking a slow sip and savouring the taste for a moment. “I have always felt I had a duty to my people that was far more important than anything I might have wanted for myself.” He paused briefly to wonder why he felt so comfortable sharing so much about himself with Durís—but only for a minute, for it was soon clear to him that this was the nature of her craft, and she was as skilled with the arts of comfort as he was with steel and blood. And so he let himself relax, and continue.

“Simply because I have put the needs of my people before my own, does not mean that I have never had my own needs, my… my own desires. And I… well as you said. My feelings for Master Baggins are clear.”

“Well then, your majesty,” said Durís in her way that was both polite and matter of fact. “How shall we go about showing Master Baggins the error of his ways?”

Durís, in the end, deserved most of the credit for the plan that they devised. Once Thorin understood why Bilbo had not come to him, he also knew that he could not chide him or shame him for seeking what satisfaction he could. Infidelity was uncommon among dwarrows, but Thorin understood that Bilbo had, in fact, been faithful—in his fashion. But it was Durís who suggested that Thorin meet Bilbo here, on the grounds of his imagination—to step into Bilbo’s fantasy and make it real. She was a tall dam, and solidly built, and the various decorations she wore for work would likely fit Thorin as well, with some little adjustment. It would be an easy switch.

He felt a bit silly as he submitted himself to her fussing, and even sillier when she settled on something they could both wear. He felt more exposed than covered in the gown of fine chain and chiming beads that she clasped about his neck, although as Durís pointed out to him with a conspiratorial wink, that was rather the point. She also had a great chest full of various tools of her trade, some of which were wholly unfamiliar to Thorin, and many of which led him to further blushing, when she caught him staring and explained what they were for.

In the end, however, the only thing she wanted from the chest was a sturdy but soft strip of velvet. Thorin sighed in relief and understanding—it would, after all, be easier for them to trade places if Bilbo couldn’t see.

\--

One the plan had been formulated, all Thorin really had to do was wait a little for a day when Bilbo had an appointment, and he could clear a few hours in the evening with no suspicion. He was the very soul of patience, was he not? His people had been made by Mahal to wait patiently unto the breaking of the world. But this, it seemed, might be the breaking of Thorin Oakenshield—to know that he was loved and desired as he himself loved and desired, but to not yet be able to act.

Still, he could console himself.

Many were the times he had embraced Bilbo, in victory, in fondness. Now, as he lay in bed, he tried to conjure up the feeling of Bilbo in his arms, the way that Bilbo’s warm body and fast-beating heart would feel nestled up against him. Bilbo’s head fit under his chin _just so_ , and if Bilbo were lying beside him in bed, he would so easily be able to reach down and find Bilbo’s sword and oh, it would be strong and hard for him. He did not need to wonder what Bilbo would look like, for they had all seen more than enough of each other, in the close quarters of their camps on the road. Bilbo’s was plump and looked heavy; he wondered how it would feel swollen and ready and in his hand.

Thorin grasped his own sword, eyes closed and breathing heavy, and imagined fervently that it was Bilbo. Soon he would find out—he would be able to touch and stroke as he pleased, to feel Bilbo growing underneath the efforts of his hands, his mouth. He wanted to know how Bilbo tasted, wanted to know the salt of his skin and the tang of his sweat. He wanted to know the sweetness of Bilbo’s mouth.

He pumped his cock faster. All of Bilbo’s body was soft and pale and beautiful, made to be marked with kisses. He would forge Bilbo’s pleasure with his hands, and place his stamp upon him. A dark mark where neck and shoulders meet, a trail down his chest and stomach—he would mark the inside of Bilbo’s thighs, too. He would delve everywhere he might, nuzzling into the golden fuzz of Bilbo’s armpits, tracing the curves of his sides and belly with his hands.

He wanted to know all of Bilbo. He wanted his hands to know Bilbo well enough to remake his form from memory, to sculpt ten thousand statues in the image of his love. He wanted— _Mahal_ , he wanted—to know how it would feel to be inside him, deep in the heat of his body. And, too, Thorin  wanted to know how it would feel to have Bilbo inside _him_ , to give Bilbo every gift his body might offer, to surrender himself up to the world of pleasures a hobbit might conceive of that a dwarf could not.

He wanted Bilbo slow and tender; he wanted Bilbo fast and desperate. He thrust, fast and desperate, foreskin sliding against sweat-slick palm, breathing laboured, eyes half-closed. He thought about the costume Durís had shown him, and imagined wearing it for Bilbo—tried to feel again the sensation of fine chain sliding over his skin, bringing a sensuous awareness to every part.

It was too much. His thoughts blurred together, until they were little more than a mess of half-remembered sensations and Bilbo, Bilbo, Bilbo, every way that Thorin could picture him.

When he came, he called out Bilbo’s name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Faithful—in his fashion” is a reference to Ernest Downson’s [“Non Sum Qualis Eram Bonae sub Regno Cynarae”](http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/non-sum-qualis-eram-bonae-sub-regno-cynarae/)—frankly a masterpiece of the angsty proxy sex genre. If you like this fic, you may want to give the poem a whirl. It’s the best kind of heartbreaking.


	3. Surprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter now has art by the wonderful [Rutobuka](http://rutobuka2.tumblr.com/)! She is a delight to work with, please go [visit her blog for commission info](http://rutobuka2.tumblr.com/commissions) or check out her [Patreon](https://www.patreon.com/rutobuka?ty=c).

Bilbo’s first reaction was shock, but in the aftermath of his climax, his face simply wouldn’t cooperate with him and shape itself into an appropriate expression, and neither would his mouth agree to form words. He tried to sit up, but promptly flopped back down. He had been laid waste by love, unwitting, and now there would be no asking his muscles, big or small, to do anything for a little while.

Thorin peered down at him, concerned.

“ _Gabshê?_ ”

With some effort, Bilbo raised a wobbly finger to silence him, and then let his head swim for a bit, his hand dropping to his forehead in an almost exaggerated dramatic gesture. Thorin reached out for Bilbo’s other hand, and simply sat there caressing it gently while Bilbo recovered.

“Durís kept your secret,” said Thorin after five hundred measured strokes of his thumb across the back of Bilbo’s hand. “Nori told me.”

Bilbo laughed weakly, his eyes blinking open for just a moment, then softly closing again. “Who won the betting pool?” He sounded bitter, and impossibly weary.

Thorin’s eyes went wide with affront—not that Bilbo could see it. “No one, Bilbo. No one. There was no betting pool. For all that Nori can be coarse, he is as loyal to you as any of us.” Thorin paused, one hand still clinging to Bilbo, the other one plucking at the strands of gleaming chain that draped over the muscle and hair of his torso. “He wished me to know that you feel for me as… as I feel for you but that we weren’t… that I hadn’t…”

Bilbo plucked his hand out of Thorin’s, cradling it to his chest and checking to see if it had been rubbed raw by Thorin’s nervous affection. Then he reached up with his other hand, the one that remained unmolested, and tugged at the chains dripping from Thorin’s neck. “And you did all this instead of asking me because…?” His nose twitched violently, and he sniffed a great many times, and Thorin could not have said whether he was angry, amused, or something even more dire.

“...because it seemed like a good idea when Durís suggested it,” replied Thorin sheepishly. “I thought, so many times, that I had shown you how I felt, with gifts, with marks of my favour. And you were so constant, always helping me, and never saying a word about returning home. Truly, I believed that you understood. It would seem I am fated to always misjudge you, Bilbo. But I thought if I showed you my feelings like this, there could be no mistaking them ever after.”

Bilbo laughed, quite in spite of himself—a real laugh, not a bitter one. “Just so,” he agreed, with a little disbelieving shake of his head. He took a deep breath, and then heaved himself up to sit properly on the bed, though he still regarded Thorin a little warily as he did so, eyes cast sideways. “I suppose this means you don’t think I’m just a queer old bachelor after all.”

Thorin shook his head so vehemently that his whole costume jangled. Bilbo startled a bit at the sound and then looked at him, really properly looked at him. For the first time Bilbo fully took in the sight of Thorin in Durís’ chain robe, with the sapphire-studded silver collar gracefully skimming over his broad collarbones and shoulders. His hair was bedecked with numerous tiny plaits that had blue and silver beads threaded through them, making the whole dark mass shimmer moon and midnight. His bright eyes were lined with kohl and the lids daubed with ground mica; his cheeks and lips were flushed from his exercise with Bilbo. Truly, he made a debauched picture.

If Bilbo took a moment to admire him, before deciding what to do next, surely no one could fault him. And if the next thing he did was lean in to kiss him soundly, surely no one could fault him for that, either. He kissed Thorin like a question, and Thorin kissed him back as if the answer was yes, had always been yes, would always be yes.

And then the kiss was broken for a moment, Bilbo’s question answered, and he panted with relief, and with renewed desire. Thorin gazed back at him, his own relief palpable in his loose posture, and the ease with which he now wore his unaccustomed beauty. And then he dipped his head down for another kiss, smoothing a damp stray curl away from Bilbo’s forehead. If their second kiss was less frantic, it was also less hesitant, a steady chorus of yes and yes and yes with lips and tongue and nips of teeth. Bilbo wound his arms around Thorin’s shoulders, fingers catching in hair and braids and beads, whilst Thorin reached down to wrap his own arms around Bilbo’s waist, and to pull his beloved—still quite naked—into his lap.

Thorin’s hands now were free to do what he’d imagined, to trace up and down Bilbo’s body, to memorize a new shape with every wave of kissing. Bilbo, for his part, was a starving man at a feast, and when he had kissed Thorin’s mouth (and his own) into a thoroughly pink and tender state, he began to place kisses on the tops of his cheeks above his beard, on the tip of his nose, on each glittering eyelid. He kissed Thorin’s ears, his thumb tracing the large loop of them, and down along his jaw, to suck at his neck.

When Bilbo moved lower, he found himself parting the curtains of chain that partially obscured Thorin’s body from him, leaving little love bites like a trail he might follow later. Thorin leaned back from Bilbo, propping himself up with his hands, but otherwise letting Bilbo have _his_ way now, and letting Bilbo trust that he wanted him, letting his own body bear the proof of it. Indeed, he was hard enough—again—and Bilbo could not fail to notice it.

He reached down and took Thorin in hand, his mouth twisted up with curiosity. He couldn’t help but give an experimental tug, and perhaps it was clumsy, but it earned him a pleased gasp from Thorin anyway. He repeated the experiment, and soon found a rhythm, stroking Thorin with his hand whilst returning to his mouth over and over again for more kisses. That he was hard himself hardly seemed to matter; he was much more given over to exploring Thorin, now that he no longer believed his touch unwanted, his desire unwelcome. Slowly he eased Thorin onto his back, spreading fully the chain curtain that clothed him and baring him to sight and touch and smell alike.

If Bilbo was careless with his own pleasure, Thorin was not, for he too had been long denied. Perhaps he had not felt as frustrated as his beloved, having merely believed himself to be midway through a slow courtship.

(And which of them, in the end, was wrong, and which of them was right?)

But still, the moment of consummation was something Thorin had long been waiting for, and he could not help reaching for Bilbo, measuring his length and width and hardness with the hands of a craftsman, and finding nothing wanting. He soon found his own rhythm, alternating with Bilbo, listening to his cries as they started, low in his throat, and then rose into desperation. He grabbed Bilbo’s hair roughly and pulled him down into a kiss, feeling himself on the verge of a white oblivion, letting Bilbo devour his own cries as he spilled his seed, wet and hot, between the press of their bodies.

He credited his native endurance with the strength and presence of mind that had kept one arm wrapped around Bilbo, the other still working at pleasuring him a second time. Bilbo writhed in his grip, fucking himself into Thorin’s hand, and chanting Thorin’s name with every breath. It was as if Thorin was some spirit who required invocation, who might vanish if Bilbo, just for a moment, forgot. Thorin murmured, “I’m here,” over and over, “I’m here Bilbo,” willing to remind him as many times as necessary.

The words seemed to wash over him, though, until Bilbo caught Thorin’s gaze, caught Thorin looking at him with a transporting mix of love and wonder. “Oh Thorin,” gasped Bilbo. “You really _are_ here...” And with that, Bilbo finally came with a wail; the last of the tension between them crested and broke. He collapsed, at last, onto Thorin, both of them utterly, intimately tangled in silver.

\--

They must have dozed just like that, Bilbo lying atop Thorin, for quite some time, because the next time Bilbo looked up, the candles had become sad little stubs in their holders. His face was caught between an embarrassed frown and a secret smile, for truly he had dreamt none of it. Thorin was still beneath him, and still elaborately costumed, and they were both still quite sticky. Thorin’s hair was a proper snarl, and the kohl around his eyes had smudged into dark rings.

Ah, the aftermath of pleasure.

Bilbo gave a little shudder, imagining what he himself must look like. Then he put the image out of his head and and rolled a bit off Thorin to the side. He burrowed in, nudging up into Thorin’s armpit until his arm was satisfactorily wrapped around him, and then peppered his beard and cheek with little kisses until Thorin’s eyes cracked open.

Thorin yawned.

Bilbo laughed softly.

“We can’t stay here forever,” he said as he nuzzled absently at Thorin, wherever the top of his head was resting. “D- Durís probably has other customers….”

“Oh, no I don’t, lads,” called Durís from the front parlour. “His majesty booked the salon for the whole day, and right generous it was of him too.”

Bilbo blushed so brightly he threatened to outshine the failing candles. Thorin laughed a deep low earthquake of a laugh. “But I think you’ll be wanting the bed back at some point, Mistress Durís, however comfortable your couches are” called back Thorin, utterly unashamed.

“Aye, that I will,” she replied, bustling into the room with a fresh pot of tea. “But I think you’ve both at least time to wash and dress before you go home.”

\--

They went home together, and of all the things that had happened, that might have been the strangest part for Bilbo. Freshly bathed and dressed, they meandered hand in hand up through the winding levels of the mountain, headed towards the royal quarters near the summit. The hour had grown late, and few others were about, which almost gave them the feeling of having Erebor entirely to themselves. Giddily they paused here and there to sneak in soft kisses, to luxuriate not just in the kisses themselves (which were surely lovely), but also in their newly granted permission to kiss, and in the sense that a lifetime of kisses (and more) awaited them.

If the walk was long, they neither of them minded.

At some point, however, Bilbo realised that they would reach his room before Thorin’s, and he grew a little hesitant. If Thorin noticed, he didn’t say anything, but when they finally reached Bilbo’s modest apartment, Bilbo stopped, and reached for the door.

He didn’t know how to say goodbye, when the whole world was different, when he didn’t know what the morning would be like. He didn’t know how he could bear for the night to end. But it must do, surely, and so he gave the doorknob a turn, looking up at Thorin.

“I suppose this is where we part,” said Bilbo, but the thin sound of his voice made his reluctance very plain.

“If you wish it,” said Thorin mildly. “But if you wish otherwise—” and here Thorin sounded just a bit uncertain— “I might go in with you. Or you might come with me.”

Bilbo tilted his head up at Thorin, and peered at him, as if he had just suggested they might well move to Mirkwood. “Of course you are welcome to come in, although,” and here he paused and wrung his hands, “I don’t imagine it’s up to your standards, now that you’re king.”

Thorin laughed softly, then put a hand under Bilbo’s chin and tipped his head up for a kiss. “You live in the Royal Apartments of Erebor, Master Baggins; I do not think I could find anything wanting. But even if you did not, sharing your bed would be more than enough. It is a pity to think that I did not share your bed in your home in the Shire.”

Bilbo rewarded Thorin for his improved diplomacy by pitching forward on tip-toes to embrace him and kiss him again, and then again, and then again. But still, he made no move either towards his room or Thorin’s.

Thorin wrapped his arms comfortably around Bilbo, and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “ _Umralê_ ,” he began softly, “If you want your privacy, you are welcome to it, you need only say.” A soft pink coloured his cheeks as he continued. “I have imposed upon you enough tonight, I think, I could not blame you for craving your bed.” He shook his head and took a deep breath. “But… you must not worry that I will ever find you wanting. I would have you in my bed tonight, and every night hereafter, if you were but willing.”

They were both bright red by the time Thorin had finished speaking, so much had each desired the other, and yet they were both so little used to speaking of it. Bilbo rested a moment longer in Thorin’s embrace, then thumped him lightly on the chest. “Let’s go to bed, you sod.”

And so they did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Neo-Khuzdul Glossary**  
>  _Gabshê_ = “my treasure”  
>  _Umralê_ = “my beloved”
> 
> Thank you all so much for sticking through to the end with me. I am so grateful for all of your comments and kudos <3
> 
> I can otherwise be found on tumblr @[irrealis](http://irrealis.tumblr.com), singing the praises of handjobs, swooning over Richard Armitage, or something else ridiculous I'm sure.

**Author's Note:**

> Long story short: Bilbo sees a sex worker who roleplays as Thorin for him. Thorin finds out, and they contrive to switch places so that Bilbo can have more than just roleplay. Hopefully you will think this conceit is cute, but if this is the sort of thing you need to skip, please, take care of yourself.


End file.
